


A Visit from the Camp of the Dead

by Chiefraz



Category: Supernatural, Walt Longmire Mysteries - Craig Johnson
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefraz/pseuds/Chiefraz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place after 'Serpents Tooth' and in Season Eight of Supernatural.  Walt, Henry and Rezdawg go in search of a black antelope and messengers from the Camp of the Dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Visit from the Camp of the Dead

A Visit from the Camp of the Dead

 

It was the kind of dream I learned to pay attention to both in the stink of the jungles of Viet Nam and in the sweetness of a Wyoming spring morning. The dream was short, sharp and brought me up out of a sound sleep. Careful not to wake my dear darling deputy, I slipped away from her warmth and padded to the bathroom to toss water in my face, check the time and call Henry Standing Bear.

“Five in the morning is not a time you call your friends,” his sleepy solemn voice intoned. But the female giggle that punctuated the sentence told me at least some parts of him were awake and not at all adverse to being friendly. 

“I need to get out to the rez.”

“Why?”

I sighed and tried to frame the answer that didn't sound as crazy as it did to me. But then again, I was talking to Henry and considering what we've done and seen together....it was just me that still had issues.

“I got a visit from the Camp of the Dead.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “They said I needed to see a messenger of the Great Spirit and witness the dead who walk the light of day.” 

“Huh.” Was all he had to say.

“And when you see a black antelope, stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“That's what they told me.”

“Any more then that?”

“Nope.”

“Honkahey.”

“Indeed.”

I could hear the sheets being tossed aside and the sound of indignant female. “Can you pick me up in an hour?”

The female noises took on a less indignant quality and Henry took a surprised breath, “what about two hours?” 

“See you then..” I turned and found my self looking into the Philadelphia blue eyes of Vic. My holy terror, having met Vic the father, Vic the son and the daughter who brought every emotion along with terror into my heart.”

 

“Going somewhere?” She asked poking a well manicured index finger into my chest. 

“Going out to the rez with Henry.”

“Anything I should know about this little trip?”

I sighed and brought her close. “Nothing but a dream and a hunch” Kissing her lightly on the brow and pulling her poor stitched belly to mine, we grieved silently for what almost was and what a well aimed knife blade took away. Vic was still on medical leave and spending her enforced convalescence at my house. Dear darling deputy had her usual vulgar and imaginative things to say about the arrangement but that was Vics way of saying she approved of said arrangement .

“Asshole.” Was her last comment on the subject and she padded away back to bed, where I should be, if sense were my strong suit.

A bit over two hours later found Henry and I bumping down the road in the Rezdawg. This vehicle and I share a rather unhappy history as we both didn't like one another and had no bones about saying so. 

“And we couldn’t' take my truck because?” 

“You want answers on the Rez, you don't show as Sheriff Longmire, you come as Brother of Henry Standing Bear.” Then he smiled, “besides, you need to nicer to Rezdawg, his feelings could get hurt.” 

“His feelings?!” I stomped the heel of my boot into the floor boards. “Considering what this thing as done to me in the past.”

“Indeed,” the smile on Henry’s face ran from ear to ear. “He was justified.”

“What?!” But before either of us could say anything, the object of our discussion suddenly wheezed, spit and came to rolling stop in front of the rez convenience store. My friend sighed, jumped out and lifted the hood to peer inside as the engine smoked and dripped oiled.

Stepping out of Razdawg, I was headed toward the shop to see about cup of coffee, aka the sludge that baked on the burners from the first light of day to well after dark (they like their coffee strong enough to float bullets in this neck of the woods), when the lone vehicle in the parking lot caught my attention. It was a classic, a car guys dream, a testoerone filled bullet with not a drop of estrogen in sight. “1967 Chevy Impala.” The words slipped out unbidden and like a prayer to the auto gods of old Detroit. Raven wing black, lovingly restored and kept running, if one believed the license plate....all the way from Ohio. Someone was a long ways from home.

“I think we found your black antelope.” I turned to find Henry Standing Bear, as he'd joined the mutual admiration society of 60's rolling metel art. “Impala?” Anything else to come out of my mouth was interrupted by the plaintive growl of......”Sammy, would it have killed ya to get the pie?”

 

The three men who walked out the door were an odd lot of humanity and definitely not from any where west of the Rockies. The man in the lead was short..at least shorter, bowlegged and well.....kind of pretty in a very manly man way. Kind of like the fellas who modeled in the Bass Pro Shop ads. The fellow behind him was not hard to miss. I'm a good sized fella as is Henry, but this dude had us beat vertically by a long shot.

“That guy is a moose.” 

“You're telling me.” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. But it's the man who stepped out from behind the other two who pulls my full attention. He was neither handsome nor beautiful more like ethereal. He had the eyes of a dying saint who'd forgiven the mob who'd beaten him shouted 'crucify' and dragged him to a waiting cross. A walking holy statue in a rumpled suit and trench coat.

Dipping a hand into my jacket pocket, I pull out a two bits of finger print tape, palming one to Henry and the other I roll carefully over my thumb. Walking over to the drivers side door, I meet “Mr Bowlegs” with a 'howdy and a complement about the car.

He smiles, “she's my Baby.” The words and tone were familiar, 'Bowlegs' and Henry both spoke of their vehicles as living beings not just a metal means to an end.

Speaking of Henry, he was engaging 'Mr .Moose' and 'Saint Trench coat' in a bit of small talk, when the saint leaned forward and whispered something to Henry. My friend paled and spoke a few halting words that weren't Cheyenne , Basco, Vietnamese or any thing I'd ever heard.

Moose and Bowlegs exchanged quick glances, “well, great talking to you fellas.” Bowlegs said with a charming smile and a wink. “But cousin Cas needs his meds and a nap.”

“Dean, you know I do not require sleep...”

“Oops there you go being argumentative, keep that up and a certain little angel of Thursday will not be watching the Pizza man spanking the Babysitter tonight, or any time in the near future.”

Watching them drive away in a cloud of exhaust and the seductive growl of a vintage V8, I write down the license plate number, the vin I'd memorized off the registration sticker, the names Dean, Sam and Cas and then on a whim...angel of Thursday. Henry didn't say a word the entire way back to the house, but at last he did say this, “you need to be kinder to Rezdawg and bring him a gift next time we are together.” 

Back at the office, had Ruby run the plates and vin. The plates came back as stolen five years ago off a Honda minivan in Rensselaer, OH. The Impala was last registered to a John Winchester of Lawrence, Kansas now deceased. Mr Winchester had collected himself an impressive and bizarre rap sheet, going from nothing in the first 28 years of his life to grave robbing, check and credit card fraud, assault and gun running in the final 22. Interesting side note, he had two boys: Dean and Samuel.

Dean and Samuel Winchester , also now deceased, had been wanted for murder, bank robbery, grave desecration, credit card fraud and a lengthy list of other sins committed in a seven year period. Seems they had the unique experience of dying twice, but perhaps, even now, it may not have took. As the mug shots of them taken several years earlier did look an awful lot like Bowlegs and Moose.

Cas the angel of Thursday, appears to be Castiel. Warrior of God, costar of a series of novels and the object of intense literary, if not embarrassing, desire of fans of those novels. 

The finger prints Henry and I lifted off the door handles of the Impala, were sent off to the Denver, CO office of the FBI. Which a few weeks later, an interesting phone call came from my favorite federal employee. With my morning coffee from the Busy Bee in hand I sit down behind the heavy oak desk to see what the son of a bitch wanted.

“Walt,” came the sing song voice of J. Edgar's finest. “Cliff Cly of the FBI. What're you playing at?”

“Well, good morning to you too.” Carefully I sipped a tiny bit from the cup, careful not to scald my tongue on the strong midnight brew. “What do mean, 'playing at'?”

“Those finger prints you sent me,” Cly said, papers rustling in the back ground. “Are off a pair of dead men. Dean Winchester and his brother Samuel. Were number 2 on our most wanted list a while back till they were finally put down. Went on a killing spree across 10 states, racked up an impressive body count, nasty business that.” There was a suck of breath before he spoke again. “Where did you get them?”

“Off the door handles of a 1967 black Impala.”

“Then you got'em off a ghost car, cuz that Impala is still in the FBI impound yard here in Denver.”

The phone ended shortly there after with Cly promising to look into the matter further and keep in touch, blah blah.

“Ruby,” I called walking by her desk on the way out to my vehicle. “I'm going over to the Red Pony if anyone is looking for me.” A quick stop at the hardware store for a purchase of crow and I was out to visit Henry. The Pony was pretty empty at eleven in the morning, which was fine by me as what I was going to do, no one needed to witness.

“Here,” I said pushing a small paper bag across the bar. “For Rezdawg.”

Henry smirked as he looking in the bag, a bottle of 10w40 and a pine tree air freshener. “Rezdawg will appreciate it. But, you have to make this offering to him yourself, the gift giving must be done properly.”

“No.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Are you going to hurt his feelings after he delivered you to meet the messengers from the Camp of the dead and especially a messenger of the Great Spirit?”

 

My eyebrows disappeared under my hat. “Who's who?”

Henry smiled, “Bowlegs and Moose are from the Camp of the Dead, Saint Trenchcoat....he brought word from the place of the Great Spirit.” He shrugged, “my mothers mother taught me some of the language of the holy. The messengers would come to her from time to time.”

“And what did Saint Trenchcoat have to say ?”

“They who were lost by the swiftness of the blade, are not gone forever but shall return to you.”

“And when's that?

Now Henry pushed the bag back into my hands, “when the Camp of the Dead walks among the living.” 

I stood up slowly and walked out of the Red Pony, carrying the bag with the 10w40 and little pine tree air freshener to where that hulking hunk of junk sat baking in the midday sun. So I took a deep breath, took out a cigar picked up for the occation, lit it and smoked in the four directions calling all in the spirit relm to witness. Then I gave Rezdawg his due.


End file.
